


5 Times Patrick Was Surprised By Pete Wentz, and 1 Thing He Saw Coming

by Imagining_Fantasy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: (kind of), 5 Things, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Hiatus, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Slow Burn, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17904752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagining_Fantasy/pseuds/Imagining_Fantasy
Summary: The moment he thought he’d seen the extent of Pete’s guarded personality, a messy lyric on a crumpled up scrap of paper would set his understanding aflame. He felt as if their relationship was a one-way window, the other half a polished mirror. Naturally, when it came to unraveling who Pete was underneath the carefully constructed layers of Pete Wentz, it was a slow process.





	5 Times Patrick Was Surprised By Pete Wentz, and 1 Thing He Saw Coming

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in like... two days. Blissfully inspired by Pete Wentz's twitter feed and my desperate need to write a canon fic. A fair warning that there is strong reference to pw's suicide attempt. Stay safe yall <3
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.

 

Pete Wentz was an anomaly. A singularity amongst hoards of people blinded by their complacency. He was the kind of independent man society berated and excluded until he withered away into an empty husk, haunted by regret, guilt, and self-hatred. But Pete bowed to nobody; no person was going to control his life, and he fought tooth and nail to preserve that.

 

Early on, Patrick learned not to be fooled by his blinding grin and ridiculous sense of humor, as Pete was a meticulously tempered storm. Whatever fueled his unbridled passion, Patrick did not yet know. The moment he thought he’d seen the extent of Pete’s guarded personality, a messy lyric on a crumpled up scrap of paper would set his understanding aflame. He felt as if their relationship was a one-way window, the other half a polished mirror.

 

He himself never hid his feelings, at least not well. All it took was Pete listening to his latest tragically composed melody to understand exactly how Patrick was feeling. Hiding things from him was useless.

 

Lyrics were an entirely different story. He was in no way a compelling lyricist, this he knew. His brain had more chord progressions than neurons; Pete’s, on the other hand, was hardwired into popular culture and metaphors, always comparing and contrasting and lamenting and gauging. People latched onto his strange wordings and hidden meanings. Patrick was too straight-forward, although he preferred to call it honesty. He never hid behind his words - he owned up to them. Writing lyrics weren’t a way for him to process his feelings, but rather they helped him express them.

 

Naturally, when it came to unraveling who Pete was underneath the carefully constructed layers of Pete Wentz, it was a slow process.

 

 

**1** **_-      2001_ **

 

 

“You’re gonna like him, dude. Trust me.”

 

“For the last time, I believe you.” He huffed, the outtake of air masking his apprehension.

 

He fiddled with his drumsticks. He still didn’t understand why Joe wanted to try him out for this band if they already had a drummer. Joe was too good of a lead guitarist to be replaced, and Patrick’s rhythm guitar prowess wasn’t exactly what he’d call _top notch_. Sure, the band mostly did horrible covers of Green Day and Weezer, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was qualified. A name like Pete Wentz didn’t go unnoticed in the scene. It was daunting. But hey, he was going to end up doing music somehow, so he might as well go for it now.

 

Apparently this was supposed to be a pop punk… side project. Thing. Or something like that. All of them were in different bands, anyway, so there seemed to be a collective understanding that this was for just fun.

 

Then again, wasn’t that what music was supposed to be in the first place?

 

Well, that and screaming about their political/anarchist/radical beliefs. Pete Wentz seemed to enjoy that part the most - with band names like “Racetraitor,” that much was obvious.

 

Joe was laying on the couch with a gossip magazine over his head. The headline was about some east coast vs. west coast hip-hop beef, like that was supposed to be new. There was a good chance Joe passed out. He’d apparently spent the entire night scouring the internet for small venues to play that wouldn’t kick them out after they realized how shitty they were - with no luck, of course.

 

The local places had finally realized how unprofessional Arma was, so they’d started turning down every request. Hah, only took them three years. He briefly wondered if that’s what the band wanted all along. Honestly, who knew with a guy like Wentz at the front.

 

The basement door opened and his pulse sped up - which was _stupid_ because who the hell was intimidated by some loud college kid? Not him, that’s for sure.

 

Before the descending footsteps reached the bottom, he realized he’d never even seen a picture of the guy. It wasn’t surprising but still.

 

Pete Wentz sauntered into the practice area like he’d seen it a thousand times before, a dorky grin plastered on his face. His eyes took in Patrick, something unknown swirling in them. “Oh _shit_. Is that an _argyle sweater_?”

 

Huh. Patrick thought he’d be taller.

 

The guy was only an inch taller than him, at best. It was strangely comforting. Now that they were face to face, pretty much any intimidation he’d once felt was gone. Pete was just too… normal looking; although his hair was weird, seeming to be in that uncomfortable stage of stuck between a buzz cut and a crew cut. Admittedly, Patrick really had no right to judge hairstyles, as he was the one to cut his own hair for years and was certain it was nothing to boast about.

 

The bassist’s expectant eyes snapped him out of his musings. Patrick stammered out a reply. “Oh, uh, yeah it is. I just- y’know, put on the first thing I saw this morning. Why?”

 

Pete laughed, his nasally snorts easily filling the room. “No reason. It just anyone who’s brave enough to wear a sweater, shorts, socks, and a hat at the same time are awesome in my book.” His gaze fell to Joe’s sleeping form. “Did you drug Trohman?”

 

“Definitely not,” Patrick said. “This was self-inflicted.”

 

“Oh, so he drugged himself. That’s responsible.” Pete slowly approached the sleeping man, that wicked grin still gleaming. “Do you have water?”

  
“Water?” he repeated dumbly. “Like, in the house?”

 

Immediately after he said it, he realized Pete meant a _glass_ of water. This was already off to a cringe-worthy start. Leave it up to the seventeen year old to have a complete and utter lack of brain cells.

 

“Yeah, water.” Pete nodded, motioning as if he was drinking something. “Y’know, that stuff people need to live? Have you got any?”

 

He cleared his throat and nodded. He pointed toward the small collection of water bottles near the drum kit. As soon as Pete snatched one and unscrewed it, it became clear that he did not intend on drinking it. Gingerly, Pete lifted the magazine off Joe’s face, taking care not to accidentally wake him. He set it down on the ground, too-tight shirt lifting above his waistline and revealing a poorly-done tattoo on his lower back.

 

Lifting up the water bottle over the sleeping man, Pete turned back toward Patrick and mouthed “one, two, three-” then proceeded to pour the entire bottle directly into Joe’s face. Joe spluttered and hacked, body springing from the couch faster than Patrick had ever seen. He shoved blindly at Pete, who was cackling so hard that visible tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. Patrick couldn’t help but laugh too, hand coming up to hide his grin from Joe.

 

“You asshole!” Joe screeched, the magazine now in his hand and being used as a weapon against Pete. He was still gasping for air. “Patrick, why didn’t you stop him?!”

 

Patrick smirked. “You snooze, you lose.”

 

Joe gaped, betrayed. A moment later, he smiled, hand running through his soaking wet hair. He muttered something along the lines of “I’m stealing your clothes, dickhead,” then took off up the stairs, leaving a trail of water droplets in his wake.

 

He felt a pair of eyes on him and turned to see Pete staring at him with a loose grin. There was something… different about it. As if he’d passed some sort of test and now could unlock a more advanced level of Pete Wentz. It was then he realized that Pete had been testing him from the moment he entered the basement.

 

“So, uh, the drums?” he said, the need to fill awkward silence eating away at him. “Do you want me to play something?”

 

“Nah.” Pete shrugged and Patrick’s heart fell.

 

Had Pete come over just to let him down lightly? Man, he was so much worse at reading people than he thought. To his relief, Pete continued, “we don’t need a drummer. But,” he crossed his arms and cocked his hip, “a little birdie told me that you can sing. Is that true?”

 

No. Absolutely _not_. He could hum a tune under his breath, but that was _not_ singing in front of a crowd with speakers amplifying his voice so everyone could hear every single screw-up and every flat note. Not in a million years.

 

“I don’t think I’m really the frontman type,” he said instead.

 

Pete shook his head, hand absently rubbing his chin. “I didn’t say frontman, so don’t worry about that. It’s not like we’re gonna be a band that needs one. Y’know what, I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

 

“I’m really not.”

  
“Then sing something - prove me wrong,” Pete offered, spreading his hands wide. “If you do, I promise I won’t bring it up again.”

 

_No._

 

“Fine,” he grumbled, grabbing the acoustic guitar that Joe insisted he bring. “What do you wanna hear?”

 

 

> -=-=-=-

 

Safe to say, Patrick was the new lead singer.

 

It took some coaxing and quite a lot of pestering from a certain member of the band, but eventually he came around. Joe’s voice was great, but he insisted on focusing on guitar. And they all knew Pete’s voice was good for screaming and not much else. The bassist had a habit of going flat on every other note when he sang - so Patrick was left as the default vocalist.

 

In the long run, it seemed to work out.

 

Every now and then, he’d wonder if it was really fate pushing him into new avenues, or just another decision made within the master plan of Pete Wentz.

 

 

**2** _**-    2004** _

 

 

“These lyrics are literally the worst thing I’ve ever read, holy shit.”

 

“Oh, fuck you!”

 

The two of them were bickering in the back of their outdated, rickety van as the band drove to another obscure midwestern town. Andy was wearily driving, shoulders growing more and more tense by the minute as Pete and Patrick exchanged meaningless insults and played random melodies on an off-pitch guitar.

 

It was nearing three in the morning. All of them were still riding the adrenaline high of their last show. Even though only a couple dozen people showed up, it was more than enough to get a good vibe going. Joe nearly decapitated Pete with his guitar and Patrick almost got hit by three separate glass bottles, but they couldn’t care less. People were actually _singing their songs_ and there were now fans starting to come to multiple shows. They had a _following_. It was surreal.

 

Despite their newfound progress, the fights over music remained just as intense - particularly  between him and Pete. It was a constant cycle of throwing out each other’s ideas until they had nothing left, apologizing, making one song that they both sort-of liked, then starting it all over again. Joe and Andy were getting pretty fed up with it, so they were banished to the back of the bus.

 

“Pat and I?” he read off, mouth curling. “You know I fuckin’ hate to be called that.”

 

“Well, I like it.” Pete crossed his arms. He leaned back into the scratchy fibers of the seat. “What’s your idea?”

 

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “We’ll figure it out, I guess. But I can’t sing _my name_ , dumbass. This is why I need to write more lyrics.”

 

“Maybe if you wrote good ones we’d include them,” Pete grumbled under his breath. Immediately after he said it, his eyes widened and flooded with remorse. “I-”

 

Wow. Okay, that stung a little bit, but he wasn’t going to let it bother him. He and Pete were just two very opinionated people, that’s all. He’d prove Pete wrong. Maybe.

 

“It’s fine.” He turned his head toward the window and looked out at the endless line of lamp posts along the highway. “You’re right. Just show me what you’ve got.”

 

“I’m not right,” Pete said, but he still reached into his backpack and pulled out his notebook.

 

The notebook’s purple cover was in tears and the corners of its pages were horribly bent. Lately, that notebook in particular had been frequented by Pete. There were many instances in which Patrick had found him curled up in the back room of some small venue scribbling down lyrics like he was running out of time. The way he wrote with such vehement urgency was always perplexing to the rest of the band. After he poured out his brain, Pete always shut the notebook and didn’t touch it again until he handed it to one of them - either those words were sacred or cursed.

 

Pete flipped open to one of the back pages, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Something in Pete’s chest hitched as his dark eyes raked over the words, but nevertheless he hastily pushed the page toward Patrick. He hesitated for a moment, then accepted the notebook. There wasn’t normally such uneasiness during this exchange. Pete always bragged to people about how honest the creative process was between them, so that meant he was either sharing something deeply intimate, or he’d suddenly gone shy. The latter was improbable.

 

The words were scratched out in the bassist’s blocky handwriting, which consisted of endless capital letters. Pete’s capitalization was a statement that said “Pay attention. This is important.”

 

He read them over.

 

_Drop a heart_

_Break a name_

_We’re always sleeping in and sleeping for the wrong team_

_Don’t mind me I’m watching you two from the closet_

_Wishing to be the friction in his jeans_

 

He glanced up from the page, stunned, and was met by eyes filled with fear. Shoulders hunched in and hands stuffed into pockets, Pete darted his gaze around and worked his lower lip. He looked like a man caught red-handed, but in this case he wanted to be caught.

 

Patrick didn’t know what to do. The lyrics were not difficult to understand; they all conveyed a perpetual feeling of shame. Of guilt. Pete was undoubtedly a person riddled with nostalgia and introspection, but this was specific. Choosing to include male pronouns was a clear indication of exactly what he was trying to say.

 

This was Pete Wentz’s way of coming out.

 

The message moved through veins like ice water. It was something that- that he _himself_ -

 

Never mind - it wasn’t important.

 

“Pete-” he started, hand reaching out to comfort him.

  
  
“Forget it,” Pete snapped, but there was no venom in his tone. He pushed his hand away. “It was stupid, anyway. Just throw that page out the window or something.”

 

“I’m not gonna do that,” Patrick insisted. He absently pressed the notebook closer to him. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete said softly, his voice almost inaudible. “I just- I have these- these _feelings,_ ” his nose wrinkled, “and I don’t know what to do with them. I try and bury them, but they get stronger, like pouring gasoline on a campfire. And it burns so bad. I feel like a- a freak. Nobody actually sees what I am and thinks ‘hey, that’s normal.’ I can never be normal. I was too mixed for the suburbs and too flamboyant for the scene. But I’m tired of only being me half the time.”

 

He hummed. “So be you all the time. And, by the way, being normal is boring. Fuck that. Everyone in this band is here because we don’t have anywhere else to go.”

 

Pete looked up, his eyes shining with vivid pride and tender tears. He opened his mouth, and no words came out, but Patrick already knew what he was going to ask. Patrick yanked Pete into a tight hug, squeezing him so his mind would stay on the Earth. A wet patch grew on his shoulder, but he ignored it. This was more pressing,

 

“I don’t care who you love,” Patrick whispered. His throat was closing up too, overwhelmed by the weight of all this. “As long as you’re happy, okay? You deserve to be.”

 

The other man nodded into his shirt. Pete mumbled out a response over and over again, and even though it was heavily muffled, he could make out “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

 

Later in the night, when Pete was fast asleep against his shoulder, Patrick copied the lyrics into his phone. Who knew, maybe they could use them.

 

 

**3** _**-    2005** _

 

 

He ran into the hospital, eyes blown wild and heart pounding. The smell of disinfectant and medication filled his nose. There were other people in the lobby, some anticipating family members and others waiting with injuries. The lady at the desk didn’t seem surprised by his manic state. She probably dealt with it all the time, anyway; at least that’s what he told himself.

 

That day, he had gotten the call he never expected but always dreaded. Pete’s mom had been hysterical, rambling on in long sentences that only seemed to end, to inevitably end, on the fact that her son was in the hospital and it wasn’t because of someone else.

 

God, how did this happen? How did they not see the signs? Were they really so ignorant that their friend spiraled into the darkest place imaginable without them knowing.

 

No. Facts now, overthinking later.

 

He leaned onto the receptionist desk, eyes glued to the sign in sheet searching for familiar names. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m here to see Peter Wentz.”

 

“Are you family?” she asked, typing the name into her outdated computer.

 

“Uh, no, but-”

 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry but you’re gonna have to come back during visiting hours, hun. It’s hospital policy.”

 

“Please, ma’am,” he plead. “I just need to make sure he’s alright. I’m his best friend and I know he wants me up there. There has to be something you can do.”

 

The woman sighed. She pushed up her glasses and reached for the landline phone to her right. “Only because you seem genuinely concerned for his health. The log says his family is already up there, so I’m going to call and see if you should go up or not. This is the best I can do.”

 

“Thank you.” He exhaled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Thank you so much.”

 

She waved her hand dismissively and held the phone up to her ear. There were a couple seconds where Patrick didn’t know if Pete’s parents were even going to pick up.

 

“I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Wentz, but I have a young man right here who is asking to come up. It’s past visiting hours but these are irregular circumstances so-”

 

She pressed the phone to her shoulder and looked up at him. “What’s your name, again?”

 

“Patrick Stump.”

 

“Yes, of course I can. His name is Patrick, does that sound familiar?”

 

The lady jumped in her chair, knocking her glasses askew. She composed herself and cleared her throat. After a couple more exchanges, the receptionist hung up and turned back toward Patrick.

 

“Well, you have express permission to visit the patient,” she said. “Uh, apparently he started to cry when he heard your name. Everyone seems high-strung. So, I think it’s best if you hurry on up.”

 

“I will, I promise.” Patrick accepted the visitors pass she handed to him. “Thank you again.”

 

In the elevator, the numbers moved slower than ever. His hands were trembling so hard it was difficult to even press the button. Everything was just _too much too fast_. His entire world could’ve ended today- just like that. But it didn’t. So now all that was left behind were haunting ideas of what could’ve happened. Joe and Andy had just gotten the news; they’d promised to come tomorrow. All of them were rattled. There was a gaping cavity in his chest, his breath constricted.

 

The doors opened and he walked with trepidation toward Pete’s room. It was late; barely any doctors and nurses were in the hallway. The silence was eerie. Then again, hospitals were never known for their ambiance.

 

He gently knocked on the white door. It opened within a couple seconds and he was met by Pete’s mom’s distraught face. All he could muster was a hollow smile, devoid of tranquility and joy. She gestured him in, a firm hand on his back, not saying anything but not needing to.

 

The room was bare and lacked what one would normally find. It looked more like a prison cell than a hospital room. There was a bed, two chairs, a dresser, and a television, but that was it.

 

Pete was hunched over in the bed, hands folded in his lap. His eyes were sunken and he looked older than Patrick had ever seen him. His hair was beginning to curl at the ends, likely left unkempt for several days. When he looked toward Patrick, his stomach dropped. A face normally stretched in a dorky grin or cracking a cheesy joke was now set in a firm line, closed off to the world. There were slivers of emotion there, mostly regret and confusion, but most of it was blank.

 

Tears began burn his eyes.

 

  
“Peter and I are gonna head home,” Mrs. Wentz said, her purse shouldered. “Take care of my boy, alright?”

 

Patrick nodded solemnly, not taking his gaze off his best friend. He took a seat in the chair facing the bed, foot tapping against the ground. The door clicked shut as Pete’s parents left, the two of them the only ones left in the room. The TV was playing some rerun of _Family Feud_ , and cars on the streets below were rushing past, but besides that the room was quiet.

 

He placed his hand on top of Pete’s folded ones, thumb rubbing at the tattoo above his wrist.

 

They just sat there for a while. Pete clearly wasn’t in the mood for talking, but if Patrick didn’t engage with him at all, he was worried he’d just dissipate. They didn’t really need to talk, anyway. After four years of knowing the deepest recesses of each other’s minds, they’d developed an unspoken language of gestures and mutual understanding. Whether it was Pete speaking for him when he was on vocal rest, or Patrick instinctively knowing which lyrics were just too raw to put in songs.

 

After a couple minutes of sitting in each other’s company, he felt a desperate need to speak up.

 

“Pete, I-” he started.

 

“I’m sorry,” Pete blurted. His voice was wrecked, probably because of crying and whatever they’d done to get the drugs out of his system. “I’m so sorry, ‘Trick. I shouldn’t have done it. I just-”

 

“Shh,” he soothed. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I know you. You’re gonna get through this. I needed to make sure you’re okay, you’re solid, and here you are.”

 

“‘m not going anywhere,” Pete whispered. “I promise. Never again.”

 

“We’re halting production of the record,” Patrick explained, trying his best to stay calm. “Y’know, until you are good enough to start up again. Pete, you don’t have to push yourself until you break. The band- we don’t have to make this so fast that we’re burnt out by the end.”

 

“Yeah- yeah, alright. You’re right. I’m gonna get help. I know I need it.”

 

“D’you want me to leave?” he asked, hesitant.

 

“No, stay,” Pete said. “God, this hospital staff is _horrible_. They act like I’m about to explode or something. I’m not a fuckin’ animal. I need someone here who treats me like a human.”

 

“Some days I really doubt you’re human,” he joked.

 

A small smile. “Just waiting for the aliens to come and take me back.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

They fell into comfortable silence. Eventually, Pete dozed off, his head resting on the headboard. Patrick stayed awake for as long as he could, not having the heart to pull his hand away from Pete.

 

He brought up their joined hands and gently kissed the surface of Pete’s. “I love you, you stupid bastard.”

 

 

**4** _**-    2007** _

 

 

Sometime between an insane, alcohol-fueled party and passing out on his hotel bed, Patrick had been dragged by a certain Pete Wentz onto the roof of their hotel. The only explanation he received beforehand was “it’ll be fun, c’mon!”

 

So here he was. On top of a hotel in Miami, still buzzing from one too many beers.

 

The night sky was dark and starless, the stars replaced by the lights of the city. Pete lived for this kind of stuff. He was sitting on a concrete platform on the roof dangling his feet like a child. Patrick made his way over there, his feet dragging through the gravel covering the roof. When he got over there, Pete was smiling wickedly. It was almost unnerving.

 

“Care to explain?” he questioned as he sat down.

 

“It’s just funny.” Pete shrugged, eyes scanning the city. “The kids, they all treat us like gods. When we go up on stage and we play loud noises, they scream it like it’s gospel. Sometimes I think I could tell them to rob a bank and they would. It’s all blind trust- blind love. Faith, I guess. But we still bathe in it. We couldn’t do this without them, but they think we hold ourselves up. I can’t get over it.”

 

“Well, uh, that’s one way to look at it.” He squinted, his muddled brain trying to piece together whatever Pete was saying. It was _way_ too late for this kind of talk.

 

“At least we don’t have people handing out flowers in airports.” Pete winked, well-aware he’d understand the _Airplane_ reference.

 

Patrick snickered. “I dunno, they might for all we know.”

 

“I hope not.”

 

“Is something bothering you?” he asked. Something was off. Pete usually went off on his philosophical tangents in lyrics, not in conversation, and especially not impromptu.

 

“A little,” Pete admitted. He rubbed his nose. “I just don’t know when we didn’t become human anymore. I’m trying to pinpoint that exact moment when the tour bus became our home and everyone started treating us like we’re gold-plated.”

 

“I mean, it was sort of a gradual thing, I guess.”

 

“I always knew where I wanted the band to go. There was always a next step, some mountain to climb or river to swim. An appearance on MTV or a major label record. But not that we’re here,” he gestured out to the city, “I don’t know where to go anymore. We’re at the mountaintop. There’s only one place we can move and it’s down.”

  
“We could always stick around for a while,” Patrick said. “We still haven’t won a Grammy or made a concept album or a music video series. Just because we’re popular doesn’t mean there’s nothing left to do.”

 

“I know,” Pete frowned. “What I’m worried about is they’ll _stop caring_. What if the next batch of kids doesn’t give a shit about our music anymore. We’d be screaming at the top of our lungs into an echo chamber. I’m scared their ears are gonna close. The music industry moves so fuckin’ fast. If we don’t keep fighting it’s gonna roll over us.”

 

“Oh.” He leaned back, gazing into the blank sky. “Don’t get me wrong, but we should just, like, enjoy this while it lasts. If people stop paying attention, there’s not much we can do. And we’re not gonna change our music for them. We make it for us. Who cares what anyone else thinks.”

 

“You’re really the most sane out off all of us, huh?”

 

“That would be Andy.”

 

“Right, right.” Pete laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Just as quickly as it came, his smile dropped. That meant he was gonna say something important - out with it already. “Can I ask something?”

 

Of course, dumbass, he thought. But he didn’t say that.

 

“Yeah, go ahead.”

 

“What do you think about Ashlee?”

 

Well, shit. That one was unexpected. “Like, do I like her?” He paused. “You’ve already been dating for a year. If I hated her, I would’ve said something by now.”

 

“No, no, not that. I know you don’t hate her, but what do you think about us dating?”

 

This was getting into dangerous territory. He can’t say Pete dating Ashlee made his life better. It brought to light a lot of things he’d kept repressed for years - unrequited feelings and confusion. Pete and Ashlee’s relationship was healthy without a doubt, but sometimes he caught Pete staring off into space when the pair were together, as if he was reconsidering every piece of his life.

 

“If she makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.” Patrick avoided eye contact with him. “That’s what I said a couple years back, right? I don’t care as long as you’re happy.”

 

“Got it.” Pete nodded. He sounded… disappointed? No, that was just wishful thinking.

 

“I should get to sleep. We’ve got a show tomorrow.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

It probably wasn’t a good idea. A good idea wouldn’t have left him staring at the hotel room ceiling all night.

 

 

**5** _**-    2008** _

 

 

“This is bullshit! I can’t believe they’re actually pushing this shit instead of letting people live!”

 

Pete slammed the newspaper onto the table of their tour bus, angrily pacing back and forth. The headline read _Polls Show Majority of California Voters Support Proposition 8_. The proposition to define marriage as only between a man and a woman. The proposition to ban the legalization of gay marriage in California; Pete had taken it to heart. Every time it came on the news, his lip curled and his eyebrows furrowed - both of them did.

 

“I don’t like it either,” Patrick huffed. “It’s just a bunch of assholes scared of change.”

 

“I want to do something about this - I have to.”

 

“Vote for Obama,” he mused. “But seriously, you know you can totally speak out against this.”

 

“Of course I am.” Pete stopped pacing and crossed his arms. “I just feel like a ‘celebrity’ saying something is bad does nothing except stir up more drama.”

 

“It also brings attention to something important. There are a lot of people out there who aren’t straight, or whatever society wants them to be, and they look up to us. We could say nothing and they’d still probably like us, but we’d let them down, whether they realized it or not.”

 

“Right. We can’t forget where we came from.” Pete took out his flip phone and started to type out a text message. “The scene - the one that’s always been a safe haven for the outcasts and the weirdos and the divergents - it’s supported us from the beginning. We don’t owe the music critics and the gossip magazines anything at all.”

 

“It’s not about owe, it’s about doing what’s right.”

 

“I hold grudges longer than you, ‘Trick.” Pete winked, waving his phone around.

 

“Even I could’ve told you that.” He rolled his eyes. “So, what are you gonna do?”

 

“If you mean besides arguing with assholes on Twitter, I’m not sure.”

 

He could see it already. The headlines about Fall Out Boy’s unhinged bassist who doesn’t know how to keep his trap shut about issues. There were always going to be people who thought art and artists were somehow separate from reality. In truth, art was always reflection of reality. It just looked prettier wrapped up in flashy colors or some music notes. The day they remove themselves from politics and society is the day they lose _real_ art.

 

“Maybe you could pay off every voter in California?”

 

“Oo,” Pete snapped his fingers, “now _that_ -”

 

“Don’t even _think_ about it, Wentz.”

 

“Ah, dammit, my plans foiled again.” Pete launched himself onto the couch and threw an arm over his head. “I should just immigrate to Canada.”

 

“As much as I’m sure they want you, that’d be a bitch for paperwork.”

 

“Let me live my Canadian dreams.”

 

“Let them stay dreams,” he chuckled. “You don’t like hockey enough to live there. Unless you made some major donations I don’t think they’re gonna let you in.”

 

“They want me, I know it.” Pete used the most entitled tone of voice he could manage while snickering at himself. “But speaking of donations, you just gave me an idea.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Shut up.” Pete took out his phone and tapped away at it.

 

Patrick looked back down at his laptop and the song he’d been working on before Pete stormed in with the latest thing he was angry about. There were no lyrics to it yet, but the melody was strange. It was full of passion and fury, more multilayered than anything they’d done before. If people expected the band to take a right turn, this was definitely a left one. He compressed the audio file and emailed it to Joe, titling it _I Don’t Care_ for shits and giggles. The guitars needed serious work and he was fresh out of ideas. Leave it up to Joe to compose a genius-level guitar riff right away.

 

“I decree that it has been done,” Pete called out, doing a horrible impression of an English accent. “Let’s board up the walls in case of hate fruit.”

 

“Oh lord, what did you do?” He took off his headphones and rested them around his neck. “Are you now Canadian?”

 

“Nah, but I’m adding it to the bucket list. I may or may not have just donated fifty thousand dollars to an anti-Prop 8 group. I also signed us up to go to a fundraiser - Barbra Streisand is gonna be there! Shit, I probably should’ve asked the rest of you before doing that, huh?”

 

“You-”

 

“I know it’s stupid but I don’t regret it.” Pete shrugged, hand absently scratching his head.

 

“No, that’s seriously awesome,” he said. “I- I’m proud of you.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” He grinned.

 

 

    **+1    -**   ** _2012_**

 

 

Much like most of their relationship, this meeting in the wee hours of the morning was spontaneous. He’d gotten a text from Pete at midnight that just read _we need to hangout, im coming over_.

 

He could never refuse Pete, even though the past few months had been particularly rough. Between the unrelenting backlash against his solo career and _Soul Punk_ , the end of the longest relationship he’d ever had, and his mental health taking a turn for the worse, it felt like the world had thoroughly turned against him. He wondered if Pete genuinely wanted to hang out, or he was just worried about the pensive rambling on Patrick’s blog like everyone else was. Nobody paid him any mind unless it was something negative.

 

There was a knock at the door. He removed himself from the couch, ran a hand through messy bleach-blonde hair, and pulled the door open.

 

Pete looked… healthy. There was no better word for it. He’d gone through a public divorce over the past year, but that didn’t seem to have taken a toll on him. His skin was no longer the pale, deprived shade it used to be. The flat-iron had been abandoned; the texture of his hair was more natural. It no longer covered his face, instead a neat cut. Even his eyes looked brighter- less troubled and more content.

 

“Hey, dude,” Pete greeted with an open smile. His eyes took in Patrick’s glasses, three-piece suit, and gloves. “I like the look- very Costello.”

 

“Thanks,” Patrick said. “You wanna come in?”

 

“Nah,” Pete chuckled, then walked in anyway. He shed his jacket and hung it on the unused coat rack.

 

The house was new. Patrick was living alone for the first time in a couple years, and he wasn’t really sure how to turn an empty house into a _home_. The rooms were too bland and everything was too neat. But funny thing, the second Pete stepped in the door it started to feel like home.

 

Pete wandered around the house for a couple minutes, adding wonderful commentary such as: “dude, do you even _need_ a kitchen? I’ve never seen you cook _anything_ ,” and “where is your cute-ass dog? I have to pet her before I leave.”

 

Penny wandered into the living room, tail wagging at the prospect of a guest in the house. She sprinted over to Pete once he sat down on the couch and jumped up onto his lap. Pete was cooing over her like she was a baby, but he should know.

 

Having Bronx had transformed many aspects of Pete he’d come to know. When it came to sensitive things, he was gentle where he was once impulsive. Also, there was a wisdom behind his words that wasn’t there before; emotions once powered his bold statements, now they were driven by logic and reflection. Pete was irrefutably still himself, but this was, in his own words, the upgraded, mature version. Although, that definitely didn’t mean he held back on his horrible jokes.

 

He settled down on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. His fingers drummed against his chest.

 

“Did you wanna write?” Patrick asked, still skeptical as to why Pete came over in the first place.

 

“Yes and no,” Pete replied. His gaze stayed focused Penny, who was now jumping up to lick at his face. “I wanted to make sure my best friend wasn’t planning on quitting music forever.” He drew a deep breath. “But I also wanna write.”

 

“You read it,” Patrick said flatly.

 

“Of course I did.” Pete shrugged, finally looking Patrick in the eyes. “What the hell, man?”

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It was stupid, anyway. I shouldn’t have written it. It’s not like I could ever give up music. It’s just- I’m tired.”

  
“Tired of what?” Pete pressed on, his tone completely calm.

 

“Being ridiculed, I guess.” He winced. “I lose weight and people say they like me better fat. We release _Folie_ and everyone hates it. I just need a win.”

 

“Do you remember what you told me years ago?” Pete said. “You said we only make music for ourselves. Not anyone else. Yeah, people are assholes, and lately it’s seemed like there’s more assholes than good people, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t a lot of people out there who like what we put out.”

 

“Any fans we once had probably moved on,” he muttered.

 

“ _No_ , they haven’t. You’ve gotta snap yourself out of this funk, dude.”

 

When he looked into Pete’s eyes, and he saw the loving, kind man underneath them, his heart swelled. The truth is, Pete would always have a special place in his life, no matter what distance or time was put between them. Now, more than ever, Patrick needed him, more than he probably knew. Only Pete would know that he didn’t _really_ believe their fans were gone, and it was just a by-product of the negative cloud hovering over his head. The two of them were two sides of a scale, needed to stabilize one another. Pete had Bronx to steady himself now, and even though it seemed like Patrick had no one, he hadn’t been alone for eleven years, not really.

 

The second he met Pete, he was bound for life.

 

He realized they’d been staring at each other for longer than what’s considered normal between best friends. He dropped his gaze, but he could still feel Pete’s eyes on his face.

 

“I need to tell you something,” Pete said, a slight tremor suddenly present in his voice. “You probably already know, but-”

 

“Yeah, I think I do.”

 

He wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing he knew, they were mere inches away from each other’s faces. Penny scrambled off Pete’s lap and trotted into the bedroom, apparently knowing to leave them to their privacy. He was frozen, too terrified by the gravity of the situation. He worried that he was misreading this; although, he was pretty sure Pete staring at his lips was difficult to misinterpret.

 

A hand wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him in, their lips meeting. He breathed into the kiss, both relieved and enraptured. The moonlight bled into the room and reflected off Pete’s eyes, which were dark with love and lust.

 

It didn’t feel forced or unnatural, but rather like a culmination of events - the expected ending. . Kissing him was as easy as breathing. Patrick couldn’t believe they waited this long to actually do it. He supposed the best things came to those who wait.

 

They breathed in each other, just loving and appreciating the other for who they were. Nothing more and nothing less. When he pushed forward harder, skin rubbing against Pete’s stubble, it was received without complaint, Pete allowing Patrick to release the pent up want he’d harbored for so long.

 

Finally pulling away, Pete whispered, “I think somebody has a _crush_.”

 

“ _Had_ ,” Patrick corrected. “You just ended it.”

 

“I’m hurt,” Pete pouted. “I really am. How will I ever forget?”

 

Patrick held a straight face for a second then let the smile that had been building break free. They fell into each other’s arms, laughing with unadulterated joy.  
  
  
  
  
_fin._


End file.
